


Dear Tom, fix it for me

by youknowmevj



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Book 5: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Mindfuck, My muse heaves a satisfied sigh, Obsessive Jim Moriarty, Obsessive Tom Riddle, Rebirth, Reincarnation, So much tension...I can cut it with a knife, Soulmates, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 05:22:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28648263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youknowmevj/pseuds/youknowmevj
Summary: Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort confront each other in the Department of Mysteries. Started as a battle to gain the prophecy, they finally realise these weren't the first lives witnessing their complicated connection.Or Tomarry with a showdown - Sherlock style.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Harry Potter & Voldemort, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 11
Kudos: 95





	Dear Tom, fix it for me

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! So I've finally written a crossover between two of my favourite fandoms in the hope that finally this muse will quiet down.  
> (It only ignited it deeper tho, haha)
> 
> Anyway, this fic will include certain BBC Sherlock references, I just wanted to warn, but the characters are Harry Potter and Voldemort (with Tom's beautiful face).
> 
> Text in () are flashbacks from previous lives.

Several people in black masks surrounded them, their wands trained directly on their chest. Resignation and resolve fell over Ron's face in equal measure. Behind Harry's back, Voldemort had returned, and along with it, their brief encounter promised to take a dangerous turn. 

_Only if they had been careful in the forbidden forest._ Harry, Ron and Hermione had sauntered down the woods, on their way to visit Grawp. His memory was still fuzzy with how roughly the giant had shaken him in his fist that he couldn’t remember how he had been separated with his friends only to later know that Ron had encountered something terrible which later caused purple pustulus grow on his freckled face. _Spattergroit_ , they had later realised. Madam Pomfrey had immediately ordered Ron to move back home and get quarantined until he recovered. Harry and Hermione were bitter about the whole ordeal. 

“It’s okay ‘Mione. At least I wouldn’t have to deal with that pink toad anymore.” 

“Honestly Ronald! That’s so selfish of you.”, Hermione had admonished but her eyes were sorrowful. 

They had bid farewell to their friend along with the other Weasley children, immediately after which they were back in the Room of Requirement. 

“Harry, you heard Ron. We need to continue with our defense lessons. If anything, we should atleast learn how to defend ourselves from such vile diseases.”, Ginny had whispered to him once every member of the DA had gathered in their chosen place. 

It was a bit lonely without his best friend, and he was all the more worried for their quidditch team but all would have been fine if not for fact that Voldemort had sent him visions of Ron, bound and being tortured, in the Ministry. The icing on the cake was when Umbridge had been notified about their meetings by the Inquisitorial Squad which had Harry all but stuck in her office. His blood had boiled but thanks to the clever minds of his fellow mates, he had managed to shrug off the bloody wolves off his scent. 

Harry had arrived alone in the Ministry where no one could be found but that was until he reached the Department of Mysteries and had picked up a mysterious looking orb when a horde of Death Eaters holding Ron hostage came out of the shadows and his scar had started prickling again. 

Lord Voldemort had appeared. 

But he wasn’t snake-like anymore. He looked like Tom Riddle, like the Diary but only older, like in his late twenties with deep red eyes. He exuded a charming aura, deceptive and highly dangerous, and yet so alluring. 

Voldemort didn’t deserve such beauty, and yet. 

After a brief stare down, he had started with his monologues of how Harry Potter always had to be a little thorn on his side. This was the first time he was seeing him since the Graveyard, but for some reason he didn’t seem keen on killing him right then. 

Such flair for the dramatics. 

_(‘You’re not a puzzle solver. You never have been. You’re a drama queen!’)_

_Huh? Where had that thought come from?_

Voldemort had demanded Harry to give him the misty ball he held in his hand which he explained to be some sort of prophecy. He had denied outright and threatened to shatter it to pieces if something happened to Ron. 

In a stalemate and probably for his own sadistic entertainment, Voldemort promised to let him and his friend go. He had turned around and left. Harry had quickly made sure that Ron was okay and they wasted no time in sprinting to the exit. However, they were lost in the black circular room and had landed in a chamber with some kind of a veil in the midst, emitting horrific sounds, calling for him. 

Harry ignored Ron’s warnings had had just reached it when Voldemort and his cohorts made a reappearance, and that’s how they found themselves in this situation. 

\- 

Voldemort tapped his yew wand on his right hand. "Sorry, boys, I'm so changeable!" he announced loudly in such an uncharacteristic manner, that Harry would have immediately denied that it would the Dark Lord, had he not seen Tom Riddle himself in the chamber of secrets. 

It was uncharacteristic, yet so familiar. 

_(He immediately made his way to John, asked him if he was alright as he haphazardly all but clawed off the semtex jacket from his chest._

_‘You ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk.’_

_‘People do little else.’_

_And then, **he** had entered._

_‘Sorry boys, I’m so changeable!’)_   


Harry was bewildered. Had someone cast a confundus on him? What kind of visions was he having? He dismissed such thoughts in favour of paying his attention on his greatest adversary. 

It irked Harry that despite being in the man's mind, he couldn't read him properly, not with any degree of reliability - it irked, but also fascinated him. Where had the fascination suddenly come from? 

But given all that has come before, Voldemort couldn't simply mean to have them shot with the killing curse. That would be too simple; too dull and not to mention, a tried and failed method. He could have done that any day, anywhere. What would be the point? 

_When had Harry started thinking so...cynically? and better yet, why, for even one second, he tolerated the idea that Voldemort might not want to kill him?_

No; there had to be a different plan. 

A glance at Ron showed he was once again in the suffocating arm-hold of Bellatrix Lestrange. Still, the redhead gave a jerky nod of support. 

Harry turned his face around to Voldemort again. With assurance, he pointed his own wand at the prophecy still clutched in his left hand extended between them, as he called on Voldemort's bluff. 

He had his feet planted a few metres away from the other-worldly Veil, which Ron had explained as a bridge between Life and Death while Voldemort stood across him, hands twirling the yew wand, emanating complete confidence and control. Harry’s eyes were drawn to Voldemort's lips which had developed a minuscule smile, waiting for a reaction, for the next clue. 

Nothing happened. No one spoke (not even Bellatrix); no spells fell forward; no incantations heard. Nothing interrupted the moment. Only Voldemort's smile spread wider to reveal his perfectly aligned teeth. 

It wasn't fear or frustration behind that smile - of course not. Voldemort, naturally, was unsurprised by Harry's move. It was a bit obvious, wasn't it? But it wasn't amusement or satisfaction either, for this deliberately engineered deadlock, nor anticipation for the next move. 

_(‘Are we at a deadlock, Sherlock? Ooh did you see how it rhymed?’)_

It was nothing Harry expected. 

A sudden flash of memory, recognition of something overlooked. 

_(‘The sounds of life, Sherlock,’ the hostage's pinched voice echoed through the pink phone. ‘But don't worry, I can soon fix that.’)_

Harry's eyes turned towards the prophecy in his hand. Voldemort strolled closer to him, just a few steps. He was still smiling as he raised his head, looked straight at Harry, and red eyes met green. 

But what was behind that smile stopped Harry dead. Not anticipation, not amusement, not calculation. Instead, it was hunger. 

It was hunger, and in the fraction of a second when comprehension hit, Harry felt his mind - racing until then, calculating, deducing, speculating - stalling. 

_‘Do you feel it too Harry? Do you remember Sherlock?’,_ Voldemort’s baritone hit deep within their mental link. 

_(A false stro_ ke on his violin, a melody gone suddenly out of tune. 

_The melody - complex and unpredictable and beautiful until now - turned to ear-piercing screech as the bow slipped._

_"The sounds of life, Sherlock," the hostage said. A man's strained voice, but Sherlock isn't listening to him now; he's listening for the voice he could, then, almost sense behind it. The puppeteer, the spider at the_ centre of the web.) 

The spider at the centre of the web. Now, king cobra in the centre of mindless garden snakes. 

"The sounds of life, Harry," Voldemort hisses in parseltongue, for only them to understand. Harry can see the mild smile that comes with the phrase, the crinkling around the eyes. "But don't worry, I can soon fix that." 

Yes, close enough. And Harry knows. He knows now, and he always knows that Voldemort knows. 

Harry's mind stutters. Comprehension hits. Fascination turns flat. 

Unplanned, unbidden from Harry's lips: "No!", an outcry of revulsion, denial, disdain. 

Voldemort's eyes go cold. 

Life. Fixing it means death, obviously. Death, which Voldemort had always feared but never Moriarty. _Never Moriarty_. 

_Fix it. For whom_? He eyed the Veil as his mind framed that little question. 

Those eyes, now, red and glittering in the bluish light reflecting from the walls. That smile, half satisfied half hungry. 

Harry's denial is instinctive. This was not the Voldemort he had expected - the Voldemort he wanted. How dare he? All of this, just for that? 

The Dark Lord was delighted a moment ago, reveling in the brilliance of the game - where did that go? Wasn't it genuine? It was - Harry was certain; every clue available pointed in that direction. For they had just uncovered a truth unbeknownst to all but them. 

“We were made for each other. I have loved this.”, Voldemort crooned to him, words reminiscing what he had said to him Moriarty. And he meant it. After all, Harry had loved it, too. 

Now, there was only Harry's narrowed eyes, Voldemort's ravenous glare. Longing. A spark of anger too, igniting in the air between them. 

Harry's? Voldemort's? Tom’s? 

Sherlock's? Moriarty's? 

Both? 

Both, but Voldemort still had the upper hand. Self-preservation was not Harry’s strong suit, neither in this nor in his previous life, and he wanted to sulk, to turn away in contempt, but there were Death eaters, and a prophecy, and apparently a Veil leading to death. He couldn't afford to. Moriarty’s rapture with Sherlock was tolerable, welcomed even. Voldemort’s obsession with Harry was nerve-racking but still manageable – with his friends and mentors. 

Both of them together? The intensity was unparalleled, unimaginable. 

Voldemort was sending waves of emotions down the strings connecting them - yearning and awe transmigrating worlds. Harry begun to cast his mind beyond the obstacle because he had to. Weren't they the same? As Consulting Detective and Consulting Criminal. And as two orphaned half-blood wizards introduced to the world of magic so late – after undergoing different kinds of abuse, but abuse nonetheless. Enough to matter, he thought. 

Harry should have seen it before. A stupid mistake to make. The clues were all there, after all. 

Voldemort pursed his barely there lips into a condescending smirk, waving his hand. "Get on with it, now." Sing-song, "Time is running out!", in the most un-darklordly fashion but so much like his previous self. 

Harry barely paid any mind to the several shocked gasps around the hall. 

"How about I don't?" Harry fired back quickly, thoughtlessly. Playing for time. "I'd hate to be too predictable." He couldn’t help but smirk. Perhaps, he was getting used to his earlier self a bit better than he thought. 

_No time. Think_. He knows Voldemort. His mind - he understands how his mind operates, just fine. In their previous lives, they were the same, bored in a world of boredom, creating their own profession in their search for diversion. Picking the cleverest problems to play with. 

And in this life? They had a mental link which made one's emotions naked to the other, as if hiding them was a prudish affair, even painful sometimes. 

Voldemort rolled his head back, mouth open, and one corner of his lips pulls down into a lopsided grimace. "You are, though," he stated, his face twisting into an exaggerated expression of sadness. "Pre-dict-able. Or you will be." Then all of a sudden, “YOU ALWAYS ARE!” 

The frustrated howl repeatedly bounces off the walls. 

Never mind. Even he can't solve the problem of Voldemort's impatience, he's never yet defeated his own. If Harry won't play his part, Voldemort would simply force his hand. And right there behind Harry, out of sight but certainly not out of mind, wands aiming over his body, was the obvious lever. 

Ron Weasley. 

Threatening Ron will move him, too, just as Voldemort planned. Genius, really. Harry can't help but admire it. He might despise what Voldemort does, but _how_ he does it - 

Never mind that now. "I'll take that bet," Harry snaps out, flippant as he can. Offers a sharp grin, a challenge, so unlike an expression ever seen on his boyish face. If John had seen him in this situation, he would be laughing his arse out. "Think you can divine the future better than me?" 

It's empty banter, though. Shadow play. It won't take him far. He needed to find an alternative, quickly, before Voldemort acted out and there were no choices left. 

The Dark Lord, meanwhile, rolled his eyes. "Can't prove a negative, Harry," he says lightly. And his eyes moved, ever so slowly, away from Harry, focusing on something behind him. Someone. _Ron_. 

_Tick-tock_ , said his crimson eyes. 

Mind racing, frantically running through calculations, Harry sifted through and discarded ideas until one option took an opaque shape. 

Harry took his chance. He let the wand drop to his side, the hand with the prophecy still a bit distanced from his body as he stepped forward. Closer to the veil, closer to Voldemort. Closer, until they were face to face. He titled his chin up slightly, met the heated eyes. The silence charged between them as Harry once more took in every clue he can see on Voldemort's body, on his face, in his eyes. All put there to be found. All useless, even the ones that were true. 

Voldemort waited, an infuriating air of mild patience about him. 

Harry pursed his lips into a pout. "You cheated," he accuses, drawing on something real. For the Dark Lord, nothing less will do. "You shot yourself when I finally figured how I was going to save Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and... _John_.” 

Voldemort's eyes widened a fraction, deliberate or not. His head swayed as he stretched his neck in the slightly reptilian way he's demonstrated before. "Disappointed?" 

"Yes." In more ways than one. Unfortunately, Voldemort knows. 

"Well." Voldemort looked up at the high ceiling, unconcerned. But threats aside, not yet forcing the end. "You did take your time with finding the mystery of the bank robbery." His smile, when he looked at Sherlock again, held something of the old delight, the mood that permeated the first part of their meeting. 

Something was buzzing, sizzling under Harry's skin. Adrenaline, of course. _Chemistry, Magic_. 

"That hardly counts." Scorn is an easy affect to bring to the forefront right now. "You deliberately misled me to believe otherwise.” 

Voldemort's (Tom’s?) chin dimpled with a smile, and something in his eyes seemed far away. "I did appreciate the gesture, Harry." 

It flashes through Harry's mind, the times they confronted each other. Moriarty lifting the flash drive to his lips, then casually tossing it into the pool. Moriarty blackmailing him and telling him to jump of St.Bart’s roof. Finally, Moriarty putting the gun inside his own mouth and pulling the trigger in an effort to have the last laugh. 

A man, not a spider. A person, not only a mind. If Harry has a heart, he shouldn't be surprised Tom appears to be in possession of one himself. 

Their eyes meet. Tom's focus had returned to Harry. Something burned between them, flares: recognition, connection. Truth. 

A rapport, re-established. 

“I survived that day, you know? I survived the fall.”, Harry whispered. 

He didn’t delude himself the danger had in any way lessened. After all, he knew what Voldemort wanted. What Moriarty had wanted. Death, and not just any death; a shared ending for them both. 

The coup de grâce, quick and sharp like a knife: "You said you owe me a fall. You still do." 

An abrupt movement from behind him. Harry could hear - and he knew Tom could hear too - Ron's reaction as clearly as if he'd spoken: _What the bloody hell, Harry_? 

Rustling behind him: Ron struggled in the hands pulling him taught. He almost succeeded in escaping, since Bellatrix stood petrified, with her jaw gaping. Shock, fear, frustration. Harry ignored it. There would be time for explanations later, if he managed to extricate them. If there was a way to explain this to Ron, Hermione, Sirius, when even Harry very nearly missed the clues, took too-long moments to grasp the obvious. 

Never mind; he couldn’t save Ron if he let his focus falter. Harry was still locked in a deadly stand-off with someone who had been, with justification, been called a monster. Despite the pleasure of the game and the world-bending revelations, he won't let himself forget. 

_Now_ , though, he knows there's more to him than that. A let-down at first, compared to the Voldemort he'd imagined – the one which had come out of that sickly cauldron, who was beyond such things. Something else now, someone familiar. 

Not a spider, not a snake. A man. _Jim_. **_Tom_**. 

Voldemort had stilled. His eyes had wandered to the prophecy again. Pensive. Not angry. Contemplating Harry's offer. "Do I?" 

Harry took another step closer, pitched his voice as deep as he could in a fifteen-year-old body. "You do. You owe me." We owe each other something better than this. 

He hadn't thought beyond this game of theirs, before. He realised now he'd simply assumed the future would, in some way, contain Voldemort. The ministry had refused to believe him. In time, he had let himself believe it was okay too. 

The taller man examined Harry’s face for a long moment, reading what he can could of his thoughts. _Legilimency_ , most probably. Snape’s lessons were still rubbish though. 

Funny, how they were unique in their deduction skills in their previous life but those same skills meant nothing in this world of magic. 

"Maybe I do," Tom said eventually, not entirely reluctantly - yes, there was something still conflicted in him. Something wishing for more, for better than just a quick explosion, a quick ending. Finally, for once, Harry had judged him right. " _One more dance, Harry_." 

Harry smirked, both at the promise and at the victory. At the prospect of more. " _Make it a good one_.", he replied in the snake’s language as well. 

Tom's eyes grew hard. "Better work on your spells, my dear. You'd hate to disappoint me." 

\- 

"What the bloody hell was that?" Ron asked when they finally made their leave and it was so clear how complaint and confusion and anger all mixed up, Harry hesitated for a moment, unsure which to address first. 

Tom had let them go. He had not taken the prophecy from him, said he’ll have time for it later. He just let them leave and had held Lucius Malfoy under the Cruciatus for daring to question his decisions. 

"I see your health has recovered well, Ron." he said instead, answering none of the above. 

\- 


End file.
